


Once a Fool...

by dustandroses



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Boot Sex, Bottom!Vern, Community: oz_magi, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Masochism, Oz Magi, Oz Magi 2013, Revenge Sex, Sneaker Sex, dubcon, pinch hit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustandroses/pseuds/dustandroses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beecher and Schillinger have a problem, but working on a solution together is proving more than they’re capable of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once a Fool...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sydpenguinbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sydpenguinbunny).



> **Beta:** Ozsaur, my hero and shit  
>  **Notes:** Written for Sydpenguinbunny for Oz Magi 2013.  
>  First posted on January 10th, 2014
> 
> **Sydpenguinbunny's Prompt:**  
>  **Pairing/Character(s):** Beecher/Schillinger  
>  **Prompt Phrase:** unlikely partnership  
>  **Canon/AU/Either:** either  
>  **Special Requests:** They have to work together for some reason and, as tends to happen in Oz, things get really freaking twisted.  
>  **Story/Art/Either:** Story please

Vern entered the storage room cautiously, waiting until the florescent light buzzed to full strength, checking on both sides of the door before entering. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this. The only thing working with Beecher was likely to do was double the problems he already had. But he didn’t have a lot of options. 

Those fucking hacks had him over a barrel, and if he couldn’t figure out a way to expose those two then, sooner or later, they’d get busted. If that happened, God knows, there would be no chance that Beecher wouldn’t take Vern down with him. So he’d set aside his burning hatred of the little bastard, and got Beecher to agree that they needed to take this matter in their own hands, and expose this drug ring before they both went down. Beecher hadn’t put up much of a fight. Vern got the idea that he was of the same opinion – that made things easier. 

Vern checked out the cabinets and shelves around the edges of the room. Beecher had suggested the location; this wasn’t a room Vern had used before, and he didn’t want to find any surprises when it was too late to do anything about them. There was a fair amount of free space in the middle of the room. The bare concrete floors were dirty, of course, but the sink was fairly clean, and the mops and buckets that lined one wall were in better shape than he would have expected. He’d keep this space in mind; you never knew when you might need some privacy - for business or pleasure. 

There was a huge pit in his stomach, eating him up over this whole fiasco. He hated that he’d gotten trapped into this situation. If he wasn’t the one caught up in their web, Vern could have admired the logistics of the plan, even as he abhorred the results. Who would ever think of Vernon Schillinger and Tobias Beecher working together to smuggle drugs into Oz? Not only was Vern an adamant opponent of drug use, but he and Beecher had years of bad blood between them. No one would ever suspect that the two of them were behind the new spate of heroin being smuggled into Oz. 

Vern had access to the mailroom, and Beecher had access to Em City; they transferred the drugs when Vern delivered mail to Sister Pete’s office. The fact that Sister Pete was the drug counselor brought an extra touch of mockery to a setup that already dripped with irony. With a couple of well-established hacks as their contacts, the entire system was practically fool-proof. But they’d see who the fools were when Vern got through with them, because nobody played Vernon Schillinger for a fool. He’d get his revenge. Those hacks were going down.

The problem would be convincing Beecher that they needed to work together long enough to take down the hacks. Beecher might be clean these days, but that didn’t mean he had a problem with drugs moving through the prison. Vern would have to approach the subject carefully. Stopping the actual drug ring would be less important to an addict, no matter how many years he’d supposedly been clean. Once an addict, always an addict. They simply weren’t trustworthy.

The door opened, and Beecher slipped inside. Even after all this time, the moment he saw Beecher, time slid backwards, and Vern found himself thinking of Beecher as his prag. And he _was_ a prag, no doubting that. But he didn’t belong to Vern anymore, and that was what he needed to remember.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for fifteen minutes.” It was instinctive. He went on the offensive automatically; it was the only thing a prag like Beecher understood.

Beecher’s eye roll was insolent. “I’m so sorry if Em City’s impromptu shake down has interfered with your busy social schedule.”

“Shake down?”

The setup was timed so that neither Beecher nor Vern ever kept the packages in their cells. For that matter, they didn’t keep anything on their _person_ any longer than necessary for transportation. That didn’t mean that difficulties couldn’t crop up. They were at the mercy of the whims of a group of bored, underpaid, and overworked blue collar workers with attitude problems. The only ones who had even the slightest concern for Vern’s welfare were the ones who’d set them up as their patsies in the first place. 

Vern’s head was filled with images of drug busts, and deals made to hang Vern for the crimes of a couple of hacks. “Did you have any problems?”

Beecher looked at him wide-eyed, innocently batting his eyelashes. “Why Vern! It almost sounds as if you care!”

There was no help for it; the man _begged_ to be treated with no respect with every word out of his mouth. “You fool! The only thing I’m worried about is that if you get made, the first person you’re going to give up is me.”

“I’m not going to turn you in, Schillinger,” Beecher argued. “If I did, you’d hang me out to dry before the words were out of my mouth. You’d blame it all on me, and laugh as they carted me away to ad seg.”

Vern fought his anger, trying to get this meeting back on track. “This is getting us nowhere. We need to come up with a way to get out of this little blackmail scheme, not to argue over who could blame who the quickest.”

“Get out of this? We’re not getting out of this until Dimaggio and Scozzarella have made enough money to retire, or they drag our asses off to the Hole. One or the other.”

“I can’t believe that. There has to be a way.” Vern paced the floor of the small room. “I can’t keep this up, Beecher. What would it look like if the staunchest of the anti-drug members of the Aryans were caught distributing drugs? They’d laugh me out of the Brotherhood! I’d never be able to show my face again.”

Beecher had the nerve to laugh. “Excuse me for not giving a fuck about the stigma of failing the fucking Neo-Nazi Party.” 

Vern swung around, crowding Beecher up against the wall. This prag would learn his lesson if it was the last thing Vern ever did. He shoved one finger into Beecher’s chest, hammering his point in with every other word.

“You will speak to me with respect, or you will not speak at all.”

For one exhilarating moment, it was as if time stood still, and they were back in Vern’s pod in Em City as he disciplined his prag. Beecher’s eyes were wide with shock and fear. 

Then the moment passed, and those eyes turned dark with hatred and anger. Beecher drew himself up to his full height, knocking Vern’s hand away. He shoved hard against Vern’s chest, and Vern fell back, stumbling as he lost his balance in his surprise at Beecher’s actions.

“I’ll do exactly what I want to do. I don’t belong to you.”

Vern laughed scornfully, his eyes flicking down and back up to Beecher’s face, dismissing as unimportant everything he saw.

“Once a prag, always a prag.”

* * *

Toby saw red.

He’d come to this meeting with the thought of cooperation, the need to rid himself of the hack’s blackmail scheme the most important thing on his mind. But from the moment he arrived, Schillinger had poked at him, grinding his disdain into Toby’s face, the same way he shoved his finger into Toby’s chest. He’d had enough of this arrogant prick’s attitude, and he wasn’t going to take any more from this bastard. He wasn’t the meek, innocent man who’d landed in the jungle of Oz so many years ago. He was a survivor. He was hard, and angry, and he’d never be that prag again. Not for anyone. Especially not for Vern Schillinger.

Without a second thought, Toby pulled back his fist, and punched Schillinger in the face, fueled by every thoughtless and ugly word and gesture of the miserable bastard before him. His aim was true, and Schillinger fell back, his head striking hard on the floor, while Toby knelt above him, and struck him again, and again, and again, his anger roaring inside his mind, and spilling out to fill the room with his rage.

Schillinger got a knee up between them, pushing Beecher back far enough to kick him right in the balls. Toby fell back, curling over his genitals protectively as he cried out in pain. He felt Schillinger’s big meaty hand grab his shirt front, and he found himself against the wall, with Vern’s ugly mug in front of him, his face red and splotchy from Toby’s fists. 

Schillinger brought his leg up until his thigh pressed against Toby’s aching balls, both fists clenched in the front of Toby’s shirt. Blood rushed and pounded in his ears, making it hard to hear what Schillinger said. 

“Fucking prag…your own good. …attitude right out of you… …your betters… Sweetpea. I’ll show…you’re good for…”

The fumbling hands at his waist finally sank in, telegraphing Schillinger’s plans, and alerting Toby to his danger. He lost control, screaming and clawing, striking out, and hitting wildly, panicked and furious at the thought that Schillinger wanted to take, once again, what did not belong to him, and never would. He refused to go back there, and he’d do whatever he could to prevent it. 

Schillinger struck him across the face, and Toby pushed him back enough to slip out from between him and the wall. Toby had worked out extensively in his effort to keep this from happening to him, but he hadn’t trained with anyone in self defense, or even street fighting. It was purely by accident that he managed to shove Schillinger against the wall, his face pressed into the rough concrete block surface. He later attributed his quick thinking in grabbing Vern’s hand and pulling it up high behind his back, to the endless cop shows that played over and over, ad infinitum, on the TV. 

Schillinger was immobilized. Toby felt a rush of power run through him. He’d show Vern how it felt to have someone force himself on him.

“Is this what you wanted to show me, _Vern_ , baby?” Toby reached around with his free hand, and unbuckled Schillinger’s belt. Vern struggled and roared his anger, but Toby pulled his arm up another inch or two until he stopped, gasping with pain. Toby ripped the zipper right out of Schillinger’s pants, pulling them down the four or five inches necessary to free his ass. 

Toby laughed at Schillinger’s panicked cries of “No!” as he squirmed around as best he could without dislocating his shoulder. Toby ignored him, and rubbed his covered hard-on up against Schillinger’s ass. The idiot still wore his jockey shorts, but he didn’t seem to realize that as he jerked and squirmed, pleading with Toby not to do this.

“Do you really want to be a rapist? Is that what you want?” Schillinger asked, his voice shaking as he struggled vainly for release. 

“What the hell! Why not? After all, if it’s good enough for Vern Schillinger, it’s good enough for me!” 

Toby recognized the manic mood he was in - it was the same mood he’d been in when he’d taunted Schillinger about his parole, the same voice that had chortled maniacally when he took a dump on Schillinger’s face. He welcomed the mood like an old friend; he reveled in it. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to finish this the way Schillinger deserved if he didn’t have that mood to sustain him.

He unzipped his own pants, and let them fall, to the tune of, “No, this isn’t right, Beecher! You know this is not what you want!”

“Oh, what’s wrong, Sweetpea? Someone else take my place in your heart? No! Say it isn’t true!” 

Toby leaned in, pressing closely enough for his hard-on to rub up against the bottom of Schillinger’s balls, grateful for the two layers of clothing that separated them. He didn’t have any condoms, and his dick would never touch any part of Schillinger without a condom at the least; there was no telling where that cock had been. But until Schillinger figured that out, he’d have some fun.

Toby traced the cleft of Schillinger’s ass with the head of his prick. “Oh, baby. You just don’t know how much this turns me on.”

Schillinger pushed away from the wall with his free hand, almost dislodging Toby’s hold on his captive hand. He struggled frantically, and Toby pressed up against him, pushing him against the wall, whispering all the ugly, dirty things that Schillinger had whispered in Toby’s ears when he’d raped Toby over and over again. 

His hips pumped against Schillinger’s ass, Toby’s dickhead pushing his balls and slipping up to run through the crack of his ass. He gave himself permission, letting go of the hatred and the pain he’d carried for years. He poured it out as he pushed his need and his anger – his rage and his disgust aimed, _finally_ , at the target who deserved them most. He poured his fury out on Schillinger until Toby came, jerking against him, crying out his completion. 

After a moment, he stepped away, letting go of Schillinger’s arm. Vern stumbled back, away from the wall, and tripped over his pants, falling onto his back, near a shelving unit. Toby leaned in, shocked by what he’d seen. He stepped on Schillinger’s pants, pinning his legs to the floor, and when Vern tried to pull them free, Toby pushed his hand away to reveal Schillinger’s hard-on trying to poke a hole though his jockey shorts.

Toby couldn’t help but laugh. “Why Vern! What’s this?”

Schillinger tried to cover his cock up with his hands, wriggling to try and slip out of his pants enough to free himself. Toby grabbed hold of the shelves to give him some balance, and kicked Schillinger’s hands hard enough that he pulled them away from his cock, cursing angrily. Toby took advantage of that, and put one sneaker on Vern’s cock, pressing it up against his body.

“Oh, God!” 

Schillinger’s hands slapped down onto the floor as his hips bucked up. Vern came close to dislodging him, but Toby held onto the shelves, and steadied himself, pressing down even harder. Schillinger gasped, his eyes tightly shut, his mouth a thin line, as if trying his hardest to not come. 

Toby was determined. He used the foot on the floor to press Vern’s balls into the concrete until he shouted for mercy. Then he shoved the foot on Vern’s cock back and forth a few times, until the tortured groan came back, complete with bucking action. Toby laughed with delight. This was better than he’d ever imagined. 

“You’re a fucking masochist, Vern! That explains so much of your behavior through the years. Sweet Jesus. If I’d only known.” He laughed as he thought of the ultimate shame for a pathetic fool like this one. “Maybe I should brand you – the way you did me. You’d never forget exactly how sad and pitiful you are. Every time you scratched your ass, you’d feel those raised scars, reminding you that _you_ \- _belong_ \- to _me_.” 

He spoke from experience. He’d never be free of Schillinger until those burn scars were gone. His parents had offered to have the swastika removed years ago, right there at the infirmary, with their specialist behind the scalpel. But at the time, he’d needed the reminder, fuel for his overpowering hatred.

Vern squirmed and cried out with every shove of Toby’s foot. “Beecher… Please!” 

Toby couldn’t tell what Schillinger was begging for; he didn’t care. It was time to end this. He put most of his weight on Schillinger’s cock, and then, he twisted his foot, letting the rough edges of the tread on Toby’s new sneakers grind into the flesh of his cock. Schillinger shouted loudly, his hips bucking frantically as he came, gasping out Toby’s name.

“Beecher!” 

He lay there on the dirty floor, his eyes tightly shut, his chest heaving as his hips spasmed over and over. Toby rode out the last of his orgasm, then he lifted his shoe, and took a look at the sole. He pursed his lips in disgust, tisking at the mess on his shoe. He wiped the sole off on Schillinger’s stomach before stepping back, and admiring his handiwork. He walked to the sink for some quick cleanup, and practically skipped to the door. He stared back at the mess that was Vern Schillinger, and smiled widely. 

“Thanks, Vern. You’d be surprised at how much better I feel. If you ever need any help with your… little problem – feel free to take a flying leap off a tall building.” Sarcastically, he paraphrased Schillinger’s own words, “Once a fool, always a fool.” Was that disappointment in Schillinger’s eyes? Who knew? It could have been dirt off that disgusting floor. 

Toby couldn’t control the satisfied grin on his face as he left. It was incredible how good he felt, strong and powerful. That was better than therapy! For him, anyway. He had a feeling that Vern might not think so. He brushed his hands together briskly. He should do that more often. Only not with Schillinger. He was through with that bastard. He’d find his own solution to the hack predicament. He still needed to solve his _Keller_ problem, though. Oh, now that had promise. Maybe it was time to arrange a private session with Christopher Keller.


End file.
